


That Summer Seemed to Last Forever

by Julie_Jeanette



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: 80's Music, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Backstory, Boots and Skittery get a lot of screentime, Cruising in Cars, Eventual Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Getting Summer Jobs, Jack has an Old Clunker Car, Junk Food Parties, Minor Character(s), Minor Jack Kelly/Sarah Jacobs, Multi, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julie_Jeanette/pseuds/Julie_Jeanette
Summary: In 1985, Reagan was President, the Cold War threatened, and Coca-Cola changed the taste of its drink. For a group of teen boys in the rough parts of New York, life was full of temptations to fail, but best friends to depend on. 1980's AU of the Newsies 1992 movie cast.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sarah Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 23
Kudos: 18





	1. Tina Turner Cooks Waffles?

_June 15, 1985_

Boots was dreaming that Tina Turner was cooking waffles in his aunt's kitchen.

And apparently, she did so while dressed in her short skirt and high red heels, sporting her spiked coiffure like in the music videos. She belted out the lyrics to her song 'You Better Be Good to Me' - a demand for Boots to obey before he could take just one fluffy syrup-drenched breakfast treat.

Suddenly Tina transformed into Aunt Joyce, his guardian. The dream dissipated as he joined the waking world.

_"Boots, you wakin' up? It's nine-thirty!"_

Last night, he had stayed up until two to watch Freddy Krueger flay all the prep kids to death on a bedroom ceiling in _Nightmare on Elm Street._

The radio in Aunt Joyce's kitchen switched from Tina Turner to 'Cool it Now' by New Edition, which immediately brought Crutchy- and his lame musical taste- to Boots' mind. Crutchy was always washing his second-hand moped across the street while he blared his boombox. He'd once told Boots he wished for a Schwinn bike instead of a moped. He couldn't ride one, though, for obvious reasons.

A loud knock sounded in the kitchen next to Boots' room, the front door to the tenement apartment. He heard his aunt's friendly greeting, followed by a familiar young male voice. Mush's.

"Boots, your friends are here!" she called again.

Friends, as in plural? He wondered who came along with Mush. The reality of yesterday returned like a cold shock into Boots' mind- the fact he was fired from his summer job two weeks in. Who cares? He felt a sense of freedom now that the grease-monkey mechanic got freak-out mad at him for being clumsy, giving his young assistant the boot. No pun intended.

The sixteen-year-old threw on a New York Mets T-shirt, jeans, and his Nikes, brand new ones. He had plenty of time to find another gig to make cash before his junior year started at Jefferson Square High.

Stepping out of his tiny closet-sized room and into the drab, cracked-linoleum kitchen, the smell of steamy waffles grew stronger. There stood Mush, along with- _Cowboy?_

"Hey Boots, the day's half ova'!" said Mush. "We got'cha an oppertunity fer a gig!"

"Here, boys. Have some waffles. Since your friend here's up too late to have his share!"

"Aww, c'mon Aunt Joyce, I'm up now!" said Boots in a half-whiny tone, rushing to grab at least one whole waffle from the platter next to the box of Hungry Jack mix.

"Hungry Jack? Hey, that box describes me perfect! Thanks, ma'am," said Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly, accepting a plate from Boots' aunt with a fluffy waffle on it. He casually reached for the bottle of syrup.

"Ma'am?" Joyce Wright, a mid-forties nursing home CNA, said in mock offense. "I prefer 'Miss' but your friend here sure got some nice manners, Arthur!" she said to her nephew.

"Thanks fer the grub, Miss," said Mush, accepting a waffle plate from a beaming Aunt Joyce. He started eating it without a fork or syrup.

Boots was greatly cheered up by their sudden appearance in his home this morning. He tried not to cringe at Jack's outfit. He'd dared to walk into his fourplex rental building not only A- being a pretty white boy, but B- wearing a button-down pinstripe dress shirt with a...yikes...silver bolo tie.

At least he wasn't wearing his cowboy boots, or that red bandanna around his neck instead of around his head. He had on a pair of respectable, scuffed Adidas today. Jack Kelly's dark brown hair was side-parted and feathered back gracefully, as usual.

Mush, meanwhile, wore his black mesh muscle shirt over a tank top, showing off a set of emerging biceps. He completed the look with acid wash jeans and red sweatbands on his wrists. Mush, ever the jock, would make the football team this fall along with Kid Blink.

"So what's this about gettin' me a gig, man? I don't need help." Boots said while chugging the remains of a carton of orange juice. His aunt shook her head, silently chiding him for not offering his friends each a glass of the stuff.

"Mr. Denton says 'da Times is short on circulation workers," said Jack, who worked a summer job in one of the production rooms of the Times office along with his best friend Davey Jacobs. The two basically sat on their duffs cutting, pasting and assembling ads for the classifieds like a jigsaw puzzle for a measly four dollars an hour.

"Circulation? What's that? Delivery?" asked Boots.

"Yeah. Paper delivery," said Mush. "Even Crutchy can do it. He gotta paper route on his moped a'ready."

So that was why Crutchy wasn't home in the mornings lately. His blue Honda moped was nowhere to be seen until after two.

"So a paper boy?" said Boots incredulously. "What are we, twelve?"

"Beggahs can't be choosahs." said Mush. Jack nodded, straightening his bolo tie with his fingers.

"Pays better per hour than most jobs, and the shifts are short. Early mornings ta' afternoon, or else evenings if ya like. Us three's gonna hit the Times office and I'll getcha some applications. And I'm givin 'ya a tour of my office," said Jack in a tone that suggested there was no argument.

…

The New York Times building was immense, full of employees of all stations and walks of life bustling about the corridors and lobbies.

"The office where Mr. Denton works is on the higher floors. Where the bigshots get windows and nice views. I ain't takin' ya there," Jack told Boots and Mush as they hopped down flights of stairs to the production and circulation departments.

In a spritely mood, Jack slid down two banisters, his tall form graceful. The downstairs offices were drab and smelled like ink and paper, not to mention hot and humid. Jack went to knock on somebody's small corner office door. A scowling, annoyed-looking older guy was on a rotary phone inside.

"Mr. Kloppman's on the phone, it'll be a sec," said Jack.

"Jack, thanks for takin' us up here on your Saturday off. You didn't haveta," said Boots appreciatively.

After all, Jack could have spent a lazy day at home like most of the other guys wanted to do on Saturdays. But then, wait. Boots had to remember. It's Jack Kelly. Jack Kelly, restless and on the go, didn't take lazy days at home, ever. He probably didn't even have a TV he could watch. He stayed at a youth group home for outgrown foster teens, and was kind of semi-adopted by Mr. Denton, a Times journalist whom he met through the 'Big Brother' program.

"Hey, it's no problem," said Jack. "Cause if I got connections, I don't wanna keep 'em all to myself."

"Thanks, man. I mean it," Boots repeated, and he nudged Mush's shoulder to remind him to pay due respect.

"Thanks, Jack," said Mush, nodding.

Jack was definitely the designated leader of their group of friends. The guy was cool, no doubt about it. He came from the worst situation of all of them- no known family, a foster kid since before he could recall- but he had the enviable air of not giving a shit and living life one day at a time. He also managed to have a car, something most of the other guys didn't have. Most of all, he cared about his friends like a 'big brother' himself though he was just seventeen, the same age or a year older than the rest.

"The Times is a good place to work. Can't promise ya an office job, wish I could," Jack told them.

"Maybe they need help sittin' here pastin' papers togethah. This looks easy," said Mush while glancing around the production room. People sat around tables shuffling through boxes of small printed paper ads, pasting them on large sheets with brushes of rubber cement.

"It's easy but it's boring. I'd rather be outside," said Jack.

A door flew open and David Jacobs came in, carrying a stack of completed classified-ad pages ready to go to print. He wore a baby-blue polo shirt, the collar neatly buttoned up instead of popped. The shirt and his khaki pleated pants were slightly stained with newspaper ink.

"Hey! Jack brought 'cha here to apply for circulation?" David's cheerful greeting was a question.

"Hi, Davey! I guess so. Jack's idea," Boots replied.

"So, Mouth- what kinda hours ya have 'ere? Nine da' five?" Mush asked David.

"Even better! Seven da' three-thirty. Weekends on, Mondays off 'cause I do Sunday classifieds. Good early shift, then I can read and study all the rest a' the evenings," David replied.

"Nerd," scoffed Mush.

Jack came out of Kloppman's office holding two application forms. "Thanks, Mistah Kloppman," he called back to the circulation boss.

The older man scowled briefly at the two new boys, and quickly went back to his deskwork, unimpressed. Boots and Mush found chairs at a table and glanced over the brief application forms Jack set before them, lacking anything to write with.

"Make sure they fill 'em out wit' ball point pens," David reminded Jack, before he decided to personally take two pens from his own workspace and hand one to each of them.

Jack was too distracted at the moment gazing at the school picture of Sarah, taped on David's workspace corner. She was David's sister, and Jack's girlfriend who he'd been dating since before his junior prom. All the guys drooled over her, and for good reason. In that picture, she had brown hair in long waves down her shoulders, bangs curled and sprayed, and lovely brown eyes. She wore a pastel yellow sweater and a faux pearl necklace, the typical prep girl attire. Or at least 'wannabe' prep, since David's family was just as working class as all the guys' around here.

"If you use the office phone to call her, Cowboy, I'll give ya a knuckle sandwich," said David.

"I'll take two of 'em. With extra pickles," said Jack, flashing his perfect Jack-smile.

"Whatever," said David, rolling his eyes. "Anyways, you guys go ahead and fill the apps out, and I'll give 'em to Kloppman. I'm workin' till three-thirty today."

Boots found his application easy enough to fill out, at least at first. _Name- Arthur Leon Williams. Birthdate- Feburary 3, 1969. SSN_ \- oh, crap.

 _"Shit!"_ exclaimed Mush. "Forgot my frickin' Social Security card!"

Boots was thinking the same. He glanced over at Mush's app, where in childlike block letters he'd filled out 'Michael Joseph Meyers' and his April birthday.

"Just fill out the rest of it here, take it home and find ya' card somewhere." said Jack.

"But hurry up so you can turn it in to 'em today, or at least tomorrow," added David, with a tone that reminded both Boots and Mush of an English teacher or something.

…

Boots, Jack and Mush wished David a good rest of the day. They went to the bus stop to catch a ride back to Jack's neighborhood; Jack paid for the relatively cheap bus run. From there, they walked to the lot where Jack had parked his car, a drab brown '72 Chevelle Malibu he'd bought from his savings and recent earnings.

"Hey, it's still here!" said Jack. Leaving cars unattended was always a risk.

"Course it is," Mush scoffed. "Who'd want that ugly piece o' shit?"

"People like you and Boots who only have their feet an' their friends' charity to get from A da' B," Jack replied.

They climbed into the car. Boots' and Mush's unfinished job applications were in a folder David gave them, and they both felt like losers for forgetting to bring their stupid little Social Security cards. They still had to carry the papers home with them.

"I'm not takin' ya on a run back today. Not my fault you dunno how to apply for jobs prepared." Jack muttered to the other two.

"I'll spend my own money on a bus to go back. But I don't even know where my Social Security card is!" said Boots, lodged in the corner of the back seat with Mush beside him. Mush's bare armpits were starting to smell in the heat; Boots started to crank the window open a bit.

"If you don't know where your card is, how'd you get your other job before?" Mush asked Boots.

"Word of mouth. No, not Davey. The regular word of mouth. I mean, Barry asked me, he needed someone to help fix cars part time," said Boots. "But I ain't good at mechanical stuff. Guess you learn by tryin.'"

Jack fiddled with the radio buttons on the old car while he drove. Boots and Mush groaned.

"You better not play that country-western shit, Cowboy," Mush said.

"Fine, I won't," said Jack, laughing. He reached down and fumbled with the plastic boxes of cassette tapes scattered on his car floor. The bands were Iron Maiden, Metallica, and Judas Priest.

"I take it Skittery was ridin' with you last," Boots guessed.

"Yeah. I'll play one of his tapes while we take a cruise over to Davey's. I wanna pick up Sarah."

"Aww, if Sarah comes with us, you'll ditch us!" Boots groaned.

"May's well drop us off at home, so you can be free to suck face with her," Mush added.

Mush's voice was muffled by the loud, headbanging guitars of Iron Maiden after Jack popped the tape in. Jack started bobbing his head to the jackhammer beat. Skittery's favorite music was starting to grow on Jack, Boots and all of them, it was true. Angry, raw rebellion, the themes of no hope. Music to listen to when you wanted to vent.

Harder core rap was like that too, but Boots didn't want to constantly listen to all that Bloods and Crips drama that reminded him too much of reality. His music tastes were eclectic, all over the place.

As they neared the street where the Jacobs family lived, they passed people of different skintones, languages, and ages, all walking along the sidewalks or gathered in front of townhouses, talking. It was a melting pot- that is, a melting pot of just poor.

A familiar figure caught their eye wearing a black shirt and pinkish shorts, walking with his shoulders slumped and looking pissed off as usual.

"Hey, Jack, pick him up!" Boots said fondly.

Jack laughed and rolled down the window, letting the sound of Iron Maiden waft out. _"Hey- Dumb and Glum!"_ he yelled to the black-shirted teenage pedestrian.

Skittery turned around and yelled back as Jack slowed his car down. _"Gimme my tapes back!"_

"Then come with us! I'm off to Davey's!"

"Davey even home? It's Saturday, Jack. He works on Saturday," said Skittery, pulling the small foam headphones off his ears. He held a small Walkman tape player. His black shirt read 'Anthrax.'

Mark 'Skittery' Goldblum was going into junior year like Boots, another one of the younger guys. Very book-smart too, but Boots doubted he'd graduate. Skittery was a metalhead, and wasn't all that extroverted but that didn't stop girls from chasing him. Though nervous and broody with a penchant for death-themed music, he was gifted with a tall, lean build and a pretty-boy face like Jack's and Mush's.

Jack stopped the Chevelle. Skittery jumped into the front passenger seat, beside Cowboy. Mush, directly behind him, reached forward and ground his knuckle into Skittery's head of wavy brown hair for a noogie.

"Girly shampoo?" said Mush, smelling his knuckle.

"Shut up. It's my mom's cheap stuff."

"Were you over at Bumlets' place?" asked Jack. "Your shirt smells like weed. You n' Bum better watch it."

"Yeah, but you know Bumlets. Always with Lisa," Skittery replied with an annoyed tone. "All they do is make out and they don't want me interruptin."

Boots tried not to laugh. At least Jack didn't always ditch them by having a girlfriend. Most of the guys were hoping for the day Bumlets would break up with Lisa, or vice versa.

"So anyways, I wanna see Sarah while Davey's workin," said Jack. "Les is home too, though, so she's probably babysittin' him,'' Jack mused while he turned the heavy metal music on the radio down.

"Jacky, you can't score with the little brudder around," said Mush. "How's about we go to Higgins' place first?"

"Ya think Higgins is home? Or did he catch a bus to Brooklyn to worship at the throne of Spot?"

"It's Saturday. The weekend. NASCAR's on TV, and so's the Belmont Stakes, or whatever horse race is on." Skittery offered this information.

"Then let's cruise on ova' to Ninety-Seventh and Hill," Jack decided. He rounded a corner, making the old car rev its engine. It sounded like a few guns popping off under the boys' seats.

Sitting quietly in the back holding the envelope, Boots knew that if they went to Racetrack Higgins' house, they'd be there all afternoon watching races with him. Probably placing bets with either real money or bags of candy or Doritos, which Racetrack and his younger brother Snipeshooter always had in plenty supply along with soda and cigars. Only Race smoked the cigars, though.

Boots liked the idea because he liked hanging out with Racetrack and Snipeshooter, but still. He and Mush had to get their Social Security cards and job applications finished. Responsibility and all.

"So Skittery," said Jack, "do you have a summer job?"

"Nope."

"Wanna deliver papers?"

"Nope."

"You wanna lay on your bed all day, smoke doobies and wait for nu-cu-ler holocaust," said Jack, more a statement than a question.

"Yup. And it's _nuclear_ , not 'nu-cu-ler."

"Your mom's welfare checks ain't gonna support you when you're twenty-one, Skitts. How come you don't save up for college or somethin'?"

"Cause by the time I'm eighteen, Reagan's gonna start somethin' with either the Iranians, Libya, or the Russians. The Russians will find some reason to push the buttons and blow us all up. Hydrogen bombs. And New York'll be first," said Skittery.

Boots saw that gloomy look coming over the headbanger kid's eyes. He cringed and looked out the window at the passing buildings. Boots was scared of the thought of nuclear war. He used to have nightmares about it a few years back.

"You need to stop watchin' that 'Day After' shit," said Jack. "All it does is feed into ya' pessimism. And speakin' of nukes, I'm gonna move to New Mexico where there's just desert. They test 'em there, I think. But that place is beautiful, and warm. When I go, you should all come with me. To Santa Fe."

"Aliens on UFOs landed in New Mexico, Jack. The government doesn't want us to know, it's a cover-up," said Skittery.

"Shuddup, Skitts," said Mush.

"When we get to Race's house, I wanna use his telephone and call Sarah," said Jack.

Finally, he pulled close to the curb at Ninety-Seventh street, in front of an old three-story tenement building. The four boys got out and walked up the stone steps. Jack knocked.

The door opened and a shortish, dark-haired teenage boy appeared. He wore a pastel green shirt with the collar popped up, a few buttons unbuttoned, and a gold chain necklace. Like Mush, he wore acid-washed jeans.

"Hey, all youse!" he greeted.

"Race! Can we crash for a while?" Jack greeted.

Racetrack opened the door wide for the four to enter. His family home he shared with his brother and mother was a threadbare-carpeted apartment, featuring nasty-looking couches from the Nixon era and a TV on a rolling stand. The TV was tuned to horse races. Snipeshooter, Race's younger brother who was thirteen, sat on one of the couches playing with a Rubik's Cube.

"Texas Futurity Stakes are comin' on," said Race. "Wanna pick a horse? Cowboy, you up for it?"

"Maybe for your whole case of Coke," said Jack.

"It's New Coke," said Race. The boys groaned.

Jack excused himself to borrow the mounted telephone hanging on a wall, to call Sarah.

Mush and Snipeshooter helped Race open up bags of M&M's candy, pouring it all into a bowl. They used the candies for betting instead of real money, since all of them were just plain too low on cash.

Boots took more of an interest in Snipes' Rubik's Cube, than the TV horse races or the M&M's. He was able to get one side of red in the cube, and was almost done with the black side except for the frustrating square in the middle. If he tried to turn the wayward black square to the right row, he would break up the red side.

" _Wooo-hoo!_ Scarlet Destiny, just like I toldja!" yelled Race. "Pay me up, one hundred M&M's!"

"You're gonna get fat," said Mush, scooping up handfuls of candies.

Race replied by pulling up his mint-green shirt, showing off his flat, lean abdomen over his acid-wash Levis and swinging his hips. He was trying to appear 'sexy' but was more comical than anything. "I'm a lean, mean, killin' machine," he declared proudly.

Mush laughed. Boots chuckled too, as he gave up on solving the Rubik's Cube.

"Yeah, Anthony-boy, lay all 'dem M&M's on your stomach and let Spot Conlon lick 'em off you," bantered Mush.

"You sayin' I'm gay with Spot, Mush?" Racetrack asked in a lighthearted tone, tucking his shirt back into his jeans. His Italian olive complexion turned all red, like he'd been working out.

"No comment," said Mush.

"I got no comment, either," echoed Skittery.

Boots stared down at the Rubik's Cube, and the phrase 'whatever floats your boat' popped into his mind for some odd reason.

Snipeshooter chuckled while eating a handful of M&M's. "I won't tell Mom a thing, Anthony," he declared.

"Good, Snipes. And I don't wanna hear your comments anyway, Skittery," said Race. "Cause all ya' talk about is the world ending or UFO shit. You can't talk about normal things."

Skittery shrugged, perhaps partly agreeing with him.

"Skitt's so busy thinkin' bout his death by nuclear bomb that he can't learn how'da live," said Mush.

Racetrack grinned, and Boots guessed it was because he'd been able to divert attention off of Mush's crack about him and Spot Conlon and gayness- and back to making Mush mock Skittery for being a doom-obsessed weirdo.

Boots kept hearing that name 'Spot Conlon' being bandied around, especially anytime Race was with them. Apparently, he was Anthony's good friend in Brooklyn. Race went to Brooklyn all the time to see this Spot guy, but Spot never came into Manhattan or Harlem to meet Racetrack's other friends. Jack had met him, since he could easily go to Brooklyn by virtue of having a car. Plus, Race said that Jack could 'hold his own' with a guy like Spot.

Boots sensed that Racetrack didn't want his 'non-Jack Kelly' friends being mixed up with Spot, due to the guy's reputation of being some kind of tough gang hoodlum.

He put down the Rubik's Cube and picked up a few marbles from the glass ashtray on the coffee table, fidgeting with them and rolling them in one hand.

"Can I offer youse a root beer if ya don't like New Coke?" Racetrack asked, chewing on a mouthful of M&M's.

All the other boys nodded yes, except for Jack- who was still standing in the Higgins' little kitchen on the phone with Sarah Jacobs. Racetrack passed him on the way to the fridge, making kissy faces.

"Jacky loves ya, Sarah!" he teased.

"He's right, Sarah, I love you...I love you too. See ya later," Jack said in a low tone. With a blushing grin, he finally put the phone receiver back on the hook. Racetrack got out cans of soda; the boys drank and ate chips and M&M's on the crumb-dusted couches.

"You're so frickin' whipped, Jacky. You didn't say one word to any o' us since' ya got heah," said Racetrack. He mimed a horsewhip with his arm. "Whhi-cha!"

"Sorry, Race. Guess I lost track of time. Hey, would you and Snipes be interested in deliverin' papers?"

"Deliverin' papers?" Racetrack shrugged. "Hmm, maybe. How much?"

"More than you make right now," Jack said, laughing. "I'll get you applications when Mush and Boots turn in theirs. Lots of paper routes and nobody these days wants to do them in our neighborhoods."

"People in our neighborhoods don't read the frickin' paper, 'cept Davey the nerd. And Skittery with his Russia and Cold War news, and Boots with...whatever it is he reads. What do you read, Bootsie? Da' funnies?"

Boots nodded in Racetrack's direction. "Funnies, yeah. And different kinds a' news articles. Science and stuff."

"Cool," said Racetrack. "Knew you were almost as eggheaded as Davey."

Boots shrugged, not saying much. He didn't want to share too much how he liked reading about medical breakthroughs, the patterns of weather, the environment. If he did, they'd all think he was as weird as Skittery and nerdier than David Jacobs so he kept quiet.

"I'll ask Kloppman what routes he needs assigned," said Jack. "I know one o' the routes they need is Brooklyn. And the Garment District where ya'd make more money with more papers. Anyways, Race, I gotta go give all these guys rides home. I picked up Skitts while he was walkin."

"See ya later. I'll think about that newspaper delivery gig. Brooklyn, eh? Maybe I can ask Spot if he wants to do...somethin' legitimate…"

Racetrack's words trailed off; he started to fidget with his gold necklace. A shadow of worry, or concern, or sadness- or whatever it was that wasn't Race's usual smartass clown face- came over him. Boots noticed it, and he in turn wondered if Jack or anyone else did.

"Spot doesn't seem to me like the kinda guy who's in ta...legitimate anything," Jack opined. "I can't see him as a paper boy tossing the New York Times on porches."

Racetrack nodded, and his expression brightened back into Smartass Clown. "The only things Spot would t'row on peoples' porches are lit-up bags o' shit or firecrackers."

Everybody chuckled and the group started to leave, going out to Jack's car.

"Thanks for letting us stop over," said Boots.

"Boots, I saw you liked those old marbles and my Rubik's Cube," Snipeshooter said. "Do you want 'em? Take 'em!"

"Nah, that's okay. I got a big marble collection at home," Boots said, feeling dumb for playing with Snipeshooter's kid toys.

"Kay, get outta heah! Amscray!" Race called out jovially, the last word in Pig Latin, the silly language they all used to use in junior high.

Boots couldn't help but be curious about this Brooklyn kid that Race was so close to. Why would he want to hang out with a hoodlum when his other friends- Boots himself in particular- tried to avoid the thuggish world of gangs, hard drugs and the temptation to sell? And what kind of activity did Spot do that Racetrack didn't think was 'legitimate?'

Boots had an idea, and that idea came from all the stuff that went on in the very building and block he lived in. The reason he was so quiet going in and out, and why he kept to himself except for when guys like Jack, Davey, Mush, Crutchy, and the rest came over to yank him out of his aunt's place.

The reason why his own dad was in prison, and his mom was dead.

He was so happy to have friends like these who let him tag along. He wasn't a jokester, or a weirdo, or jock, leader, or any particular 'type' like in _The Breakfast Club._ He was a lot like that wayward black square on the Rubik's Cube that couldn't be turned to fit in.

...


	2. The Foster Kids

_1972, 13 years before_

Mrs. Dapolito knocked gently upon the door of her neighbor in the rented duplex house next door. She was trying not to be nosy, but something in her intuition was forcing her to make a welfare check.

Maggie, a young single mother, was messed up and getting even more so as the weeks went on. Young men- a different one each week, it seemed- were heard screaming and cussing in Maggie's apartment, with Maggie holding her own and defending herself; screaming and cursing back. Doors slammed, objects were thrown around. The two little children would be crying, usually the little girl but on some occasions the boy.

The Sunday before, Mrs. Dapolito saw Maggie sitting alone with her little ones at Mass in the Cathedral Basilica at Jay Street in Brooklyn. They were adorable kids, as fair and blonde as their pretty Irish mother.

Maggie Conlon put up a good facade of being a conservative Catholic young lady in her flower print dresses, her blonde hair pulled back in a white band. She didn't look like one of those dirty young hippies at least, Mrs. Dapolito thought. Sean and Bridget always looked so clean, so pretty and well-taken care of.

But children could be children. About halfway through Mass, Sean became restless and started kicking the pew in front of him. At first it was small taps with his shoe, but soon he started to kick harder and harder. People stared at Maggie and her kids with judgment and annoyance. Maggie had no choice but to pack up the kids, her handbag, and the picture book Bridget was contented with, and take them home.

Mrs. Dapolito talked with Maggie- Miss Conlon- on occasion, and the unwed mother told her story. Her first boyfriend and high school sweetheart had been killed in Vietnam in '68 while she was pregnant with Sean. Her second rebound boyfriend, little Bridget's father, turned out to be a 'mean, drunken asshole.'

Unfortunately, it seemed every man she was involved with since was the same exact way. Her parents had kicked her out. They never forgave her for getting irresponsibly pregnant at seventeen.

Mrs. Dapolito was kind when she listened to the girl's tale of her bad luck with men, but she secretly thought that the petite blonde would have been so much better off had she kept her legs together in the first place. It wasn't fair for the kids, she reasoned.

When she knocked that afternoon, it just seemed too quiet for the fact Maggie's rusty car was parked in front of the street. She put her ear to the door and heard the sad sound of a child sobbing. She turned the knob and found it was unlocked. She went in.

"MOMMY! Mommy!" the child was crying. In between the words, she heard tearful, hiccuping gasps.

It was a pitiful, heaving, hyperventilating kind of cry, unlike any crying she'd ever heard. This was no tantrum, or him trying to test his will. It was pure, raw, human pain.

The apartment seemed too tiny for a family of three, but was kept neat enough. The older woman crept to the source of the sound and found herself in a bedroom.

The little blond boy was sitting on the bed on top of a heap covered by a blanket. When Mrs. Dapolito came near, she saw the head on the pillow.

Maggie Conlon was staring up at the ceiling, her blue eyes glassy and vacant.

Mrs. Dapolito stifled a scream and rushed to the little boy, touching his arm to let him know she was there.

"Wake 'er up! Wake 'er up!" he begged. How long was he alone with her, as she was dying? Dead?

"Honey, I have to call the doctor!"

The woman scooped Sean up and carried the kicking, fighting boy into another room where she could call for an ambulance. Soon the ambulance and two squad cars from the Brooklyn P.D. arrived.

Mrs. Dapolito located the other child in the apartment, the toddler girl Bridget. She was thankfully in a crib, sleeping through it all.

…

_June 1985_

The judge listened to the case patiently while the social worker and public defender sat on one side of the table, the foster parents on the other. Between them sat a surly, scowling seventeen year old.

"Mr. and Mrs. Adams, Sean has been truant from school a total of thirty-six days this year. He has been found loitering and wandering about the neighborhood, often in the company of adults. One of the adult males was identified as being involved in drug possession with intent to sell," said the social worker.

The public defender spoke. "Now, of course, he hasn't yet been suspected or proven to be taking part in these activities himself. Your Honor, I ask that he be medically monitored and given drug tests. Any indication of illegal use and he could be formally arrested. You can decide now, Mr. and Mrs. Adams, to terminate placement and your guardianship. It's your decision."

Mr. Adams stress-sighed and gave his incorrigible foster son, Sean- or 'Spot,' the nickname he'd carried all throughout his placements- a disappointed look.

"I'm startin' to lean that way. I've just about had it!" he declared.

"George- we can't! Sean and Bridget have always been together," said Mrs. Adams.

"Yeah, George!" Spot Conlon piped up, unable to control himself. "If I go, Bridge gave 'er word she's gonna go where I go! She's blood, she says she won't ditch me even if you're gonna!"

"Order, please!" the judge said sternly, reaching for his gavel.

Mr. Adams looked at his wife. "That's it, Patricia! He turned a glare at the teenager.

"Sean, do not use your sister as a shield!" he spat. "If you do the crime, you'll pay! Patricia, I think it's for his own good that he gets locked up in the juvenile facility for a couple'a months. Sean, you can still stay with us, but under the condition that if ya screw up, that's where you're goin!" He jerked his thumb toward the courtroom door.

"Thank you, George, for giving him one more chance," said Mrs. Adams. "We need Bridget with us. I'm so afraid she'll lose the stability she needs if she has to follow Sean to another placement, after all these years. She's such a good girl! So quiet, never any trouble, does so well in school-"

"Will you frickin' _shuddup_ about how perfect she is?" Spot roared. "So what if she's a dweeb losah wit' no life. I'd rather be ME 'dan her!"

"One more chance," George Adams said, stifling his anger. "If you get out and go gallivanting with those gangs, it's the facility. Think of your sister."

"Fine," Spot said, averting his eyes from his foster father.

…

At the Adams' home later that evening, Spot crept out of the bedroom he had been advised to stay in, determined to alleviate his crushing boredom. He decided to strong-arm Bridge into letting him use the telephone in her room.

Pop music- something from the Flashdance soundtrack, wafted from Bridge's room; her door was slightly open. He peeked in. She was finishing her aerobics routine and was on the floor doing clumsy leg exercises in her pink shorts. Spot smirked; Bridge would have to diet and work out for a year in order to look anything like Madonna or Irene Cara. He couldn't stop himself from the delight of mocking her.

"Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle-" Spot sang the song from a Jell-O commercial.

Bridge whipped her head in his direction from the floor and her soft pale legs stopped 'jiggling' as she froze. "Shut up, Spot!" she shouted angrily.

"Gotta use the phone. Scram for a couple minutes, will ya?"

"This is my room."

"The phone's George and Patty's." Spot argued back. "Just 'cause it's in here doesn't mean it's yer property."

"You just want to call your drug-dealing punk friends. No way, Jose!" She stood up and turned her boombox off.

"I wanna call Anthony."

"Anthony?" Bridge reconsidered, glancing over at the phone. "Then I'm not leavin.' I'm gonna listen in and make sure it's him you're talking to."

"Kay, sis. Forget about it." Spot strode over to a little handmade pottery bowl on Bridge's bedside table and snatched a handful of her quarters and loose change.

"Hey!"

"Deal's a deal. You said I pay you for use of the phone in privacy. So I'm takin' back my fair share." He headed out the door. Bridge rushed to him, trying to grab his arm to get the money back.

"You wanna keep your money? Ya let me talk on the frickin' phone! Or next time I'll take a pict-cha of your sloppy fat ass when you're bent ova' doin' yer exercise. And show it to Race and Jack Kelly."

Bridge's blue eyes widened in her pinkened face. "I'll go downstairs. Just call Anthony though. Nobody else." she said quietly.

"Thanks," Spot said, giving her a proud grin as he put the coins back into her palm. "I'll tell Race you're the best girl in Brooklyn. Put in some good words for ya," he added, knowing that Bridge had an obvious crush on Anthony Higgins.

She bounded downstairs, and Spot immediately rushed back to her room and picked up the small rotary phone on Bridge's desk, dialing the number. It rang about four times before someone picked it up.

"Hello?" Spot recognized the young voice as Snipeshooter.

"Hey, is Race there?"

"Yeah," the boy replied, and within a few minutes, Race took the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Race."

"Spot! Hey man, I heard about the court date. What happened?"

"Still stayin' with 'em. Sucks though. One more screw up and I'm sent to the clink."

"Hey, that's good. Why doncha take a real job or somethin? Me and the guys are all gonna do a paper delivery. You can do one, I'll even have Jack send you an application if ya can't go to the Times-"

"The hell? What kind of baby job is that?"

Race chuckled. "Some'a the other guys said the same but they wanna. A job that'll keep you outta the juvenile facility, Spot," Race added with a somber tone. "I don't wantcha goin' there. You can make money."

"Ya know how much money I made-" Spot lowered his voice to a whisper and looked out the hall to make sure no one was on the second floor of the house- "sellin' that dime bag? _Two-fifty!_ Two hundred and fifty, fer just a ten minute walk from Brian's car to Grimace McKay's place! That's frickin' bank, man! And the more I make, the more territory I'm in charge of. I'll be rulin' the neighborhood soon. Grimace promised me heat. He's gonna buy me a Glock I can stash in the basement. Soon 'dose Green Angels are gonna be answerin ta-"

"Spot!" Race's voice was getting quavery. "You keep doin' this shit, I won't hang with ya anymore. Forget you ever met me."

"You don' mean that."

"I mean that."

"You wanna stop me, then you get ova' here tonight. Take the bus."

"Why tonight?"

"I'm bored. Bridge is gonna go wit' the Adams out to dinner and I 'aint comin, I'll pretend to be sick. Come on."

"No. You come here."

"I can't. They're makin' me stay here."

"I dunno. This weekend. Not tonight."

"Come 'ere soon."

"I'll try," said Race, determined.

…

Race sat on his bed and snuck one of the cigars he had stashed, lighting it before opening the window. He knelt down in front of it, smoking so that it wafted out over the street below. He was trying to be responsible, stay out of trouble, just like most of his buddies in the neighborhood.

He ought to just forget Spot Conlon existed. But he just could not stop thinking of the other boy across the bridge, always hopeful for the chances to go see him and get mixed up in his chaos. He had a hold on him he just couldn't shake.

...


	3. An Outing

The doorbell rang at the Adams' home one Friday night; Mr. Adams went to answer it. "Yes?" he said politely to the young man with a bag slung over his shoulder. The bag had the New York Times logo on it. A paperboy.

"Good evening, sir. I'm givin' away a free, complimentary 'FYI of Brooklyn,' courtesy of the New York Times." the boy said, taking a glossy magazine from the bag and handing it to him.

"Well, alright, thanks," Mr. Adams thumbed through it, bored. It was chock-full of ads for various Brooklyn businesses. Color pages showed the members of city government and council, and a two-spread color photo of the entire Brooklyn PD, posed in several rows. Mr. Adams glanced through that photo spread in slight interest, looking for his friend Ralph who'd been on the force for several years. He didn't pay much attention to the boy's babble, which sounded like a rehearsed sales pitch. The kid kept trying to speak professional and hide his thick accent, but wasn't succeeding.

"We wanna ask you 'da fill out that self addressed card in the magazine. It's an offah 'da subscribe to our Premium package. Premium's got the extra Sunday entertainment and sports issue. It's a great deal at only an extra three-ninety-nine a' month. Are you, um, already a Times subscriber?"

"Yeah, I have the Times already," mumbled Mr. Adams. "Thank you, have a good evening," He began to close the door.

"Thanks, sir!" the paperboy said in a chipper tone. "Please return the card in 'da mail, even if you don't want the Premium Package. I'm Anthony. My name's on the card as your delivery-"

Mr. Adams shut the door on him. "Just the paperboy, Patricia," he said to his wife, sitting down to watch TV.

...

Race backed away from the foster home where Spot was 'locked up.' He ran with his bag of free magazines around the side of the old house and to the back which faced an alley. Glancing up, he saw that the left upstairs window was half open, a narrow window placed above a sloping gable.

Waving his free hand, Race jumped up and down, then decided to give a shrill whistle with his finger, trying to alert the other boy's attention. After the second whistle, he saw Spot stick his head out.

"Hey Race-"

"Can ya come out?"

"I'll try, just hope the back door ain't locked. Just so that old man won't know I went outside."

Spot lifted up the window higher and climbed out onto the gable roof. Race watched him crawl on his hands and knees to the bottom corner, where an ancient oak tree's branch extended close. Spot swung like a monkey onto the branch and shimmied down the rough-barked tree, dropping the last few feet in a free fall.

Race winced as Spot landed hard on one knee. He quickly stood up straight, scowling at the new hole in his faded Levis.

"Ya okay?"

"Course I'm okay!" said Spot. Race noticed that his friend had his wooden slingshot in the back pocket of his jeans.

"You hunting birds? Or somethin' a little more sinister?" Race asked, biting his lower lip.

"Self-defense," Spot said in a low tone, pulling his T-shirt over the slingshot to hide it. He bent over and gathered some sharp jagged rocks from the alley before they started to walk together away from the Adams residence. They began to meander towards the next avenue.

"Whaddya mean? You owe someone?"

"I owe somebody some money. Just haven't been paid it yet."

"I'm guessing that someone ain't Bridge."

"Nope." Spot scowled as he glanced down at Race's shoulder bag of magazines. "So this is your job?" A smirk began to pull at his lips.

"Paper Deliveryman and Special Edition Sales Representative, at 'cha service," said Race, grinning. "You just go door-to-door. You oughta apply."

"Do I look like paperboy for the Times? Ya kiddin' me?"

Spot edged closer to Race; his blue eyes locking up with Race's brown ones. It was a look of insolent challenge. Yet the intensity of his gaze, the wind blowing back a lock of Sean Conlon's sandy hair, it all made Race's heart thump in his chest. Not so much from intimidation, but a much more ebullient feeling, an adrenaline rush that was worth the evening's door to door drudgery.

Race swallowed in his throat. "Why not ask your foster dad's permission and take the bus ova' da Manhattan? Me or Davey'll introduce you to Kloppman."

"Will it mean you'll be there?"

"Uh, maybe. I'll tryda be there. Or else Jack or Davey will."

"Who's Davey? How many friends d'ya have?" Spot's lips pursed in a petulant manner. "All those names you talk about. All those dudes. Smoosh, and Blink, and Socks and whoevah else-"

Race laughed. He got one out of the three nicknames correct. "They're just dudes. I told ya before, Jack's been a foster kid all his life just like you."

"So what's yer point? Ya collect otha' foster kids for charity, Higgins? Invite 'em all over to your house and your mom feeds 'em? Perfect little 'Leave it to Beaver' life?"

"My mom ain't got much money. We ain't no 50's sitcom family. And Jack ain't no charity case. He's gotta car, you know."

"So then I'm-"

"And you ain't eithah!" Race quickly added. "If anything I'm your charity case."

Race spat out the last phrase before he realized he'd said it. He watched Spot's blue eyes search his again. A brightness came over them; the other boy's perfect cleft chin lifted in a sense of pride. A grin finally played over Spot's finely chiseled features.

"You're right about that, Higgins. I'm the best ya got! Bettah than all 'dem Manhattan and Harlem dweebs."

"Only one of 'em's a dweeb. Or maybe two. But you're best friend 'o mine this side of the bridge. You're...different. A good different."

"I wanna buy a car. Take you drivin' around the whole city, just like the Great Jacky always does for you and those othah' punks."

Spot's arm lifted and settled itself around Race's shoulder. Race breathed a sigh of relaxation. Of all the other friends he'd known, something about the sandy haired boy who'd been bounced from guardian to guardian just made his heart glow in warmth. Made him feel like everything was right.

Nobody else ever did that.

Like he said, all those other guys were just dudes. Dudes obsessed with chicks. The subject of chicks rarely entered Spot and Race's conversations, other than Spot's mockery of his awkward dweeb sister. He'd made the point once that he was certain Bridge thought Race was cute, when she first spotted him at the movie theater on their first outing last spring.

...

'I ain't interested, sorry,' Race awkwardly told Spot once Bridge walked back to her girl friend. The girls were going to see 'Vision Quest.' Spot and Race opted for the movie 'Clue' based on the board game, Race's suggestion.

'How 'bout her friend?" Spot decided to ask, discreetly gesturing to a tanned, slender girl with a cloud of teased and sprayed black hair, tight pink miniskirt and giant gold earrings. Bridge looked like a plump muffin next to her. "That's Mary Jo. She's got an Italian last name too. Perfect for ya.'

'Nah...YOU can go for your sister's friend.'

"But I ain't interested eithah.'

'How come? Figured she'd be your type.'

'Ya kiddin' me? Far from it.'

Spot gazed with intensity at Race for several moments as they stood in line next to the popcorn stand. People near them, witnessing the staredown, may have thought that Spot was about to get into a fight with his companion. But Race broke his eye contact and grinned, looking away; his expression a mixture of awe and joy while pretending to look up at the Coke sign.

And that was that.

...

The two young men were about the same height that summer; their steps along the alley matched in gait. The shuffle of Spot's cheap Keds and Race's battered pair of Nikes were the only sounds besides traffic in the avenue, beyond the rows and rows of old houses. The alley was both peaceful and foreboding at the same time. A cloudy sky and a breeze brought the scent of rain in the air.

"It's gonna rain," said Spot. Like a hunting hound, he glanced back and forth, hearing faint male voices somewhere in the alley. Tapping Race's shoulder, he urged him to follow him in between two crumbling brick houses to the main avenue. Cars and traffic were lighter than usual in the evening.

"Let's go to the library. Closes in an hour," Spot said decisively, pointing to the ancient, turn of the century Carnegie building.

"Didn't know you were into reading," said Race.

"Not much," replied Spot. "But certain people won't evah be seen there. Grimace McKay and Brian Bellini in the library? Or the Delancey brothers, leaders of the Green Angels? That'd be hilarious."

"You don't have to protect me from those guys."

Spot patted the slingshot and rocks in his pockets. "I'm protectin' you and me. At least for now."

"Doesn't mean I'm a coward, but all's I'm sayin' is if you quit gettin' messed up in this dru- um, that money-makin' shit you're doin', you'd be better off."

"Don't worry," Spot snapped.

They walked about three feet apart from each other up the stone steps and pushed open the door. There was no soul around besides the lady with a short bowl haircut and an out-of-fashion, bow-collared blouse at the desk, stamping books. She gave the two boys a look of wary judgment. Troublemakers, she was probably thinking.

"Evening, ma'am," said Race in a soft whisper. He strode over to her desk and took out one of the 'Brooklyn FYI' magazines filled with business ads. Spot hung near a corner shelf while he listened to Race quietly ask if the library stocked the 'premium package' of the newspaper, and Spot could tell that he'd just made a sale to the librarian.

He came back and they both padded quietly through the maze of shelves. Race began to take the lead, heading to a particular section of non-fiction books. He put his finger over the spines and titles until he found one that caught his fancy.

'The Science of Winning Your Bets: 1985 Updated Volume of Professional Horse Racing Stakes.'

Racetrack Higgins eagerly pulled the brand-new book from the collection. "Jackpot!" he said in a stage whisper, tucking it into his slouch bag of magazines. "Can I borrow your library card?"

"I don't have one, ya moron! Bridge does," said Spot. "I'll have the librarian look her up and I can check it out in 'er name."

Race peeked around the corner at the stern lady pounding books with a stamp. "She won't let ya do that."

"Watch. You'll love me for this." Spot made a move to take the library book out of Race's bag, and without warning decided to steal an embrace. He hugged him so tight, so warm, for what seemed like three or four seconds. His wiry arms were strong as iron. Race hugged him back, fervently hoping that his own arms were equally strong. The other young man's sandy hair was clean, fragrant. Race closed his eyes.

Race's insides went to jelly as his friend whispered in his ear with warm breath, "I'll do anything for ya. I mean it."

Then, he promptly pulled away. Race's arms dropped to his sides before adjusting his slouch bag that the New York Times issued him.

Book in hand, Spot strode back through the maze to the librarian's desk. "Excuse me, ma'am," he asked in a polite library whisper, "my name is Sean Conlon? I'd like to check out this book on my sister Bridget's account. Is that all right?"

The lady narrowed her eyes and reached for the patron record book. "Last name is Conlon?"

"Yeah. Bridget Conlon. She said I could check out books on 'er account. I can give our phone numbah."

The librarian's face lit up. "Oh of course! Bridget! You're her brother?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's good to see you, I never knew she had a brother. She always comes in to check out books. Very nice girl. I've been trying to urge her to read more of the classics. But first, you have to tell me your address and phone number to verify for her."

Spot gave out the Adams' home phone number and address quickly, and the librarian stamped the book and wrote the title down in her record book. "Due in three weeks, please."

Spot and Race left the library and descended the steps in a sprinkle of rain, staying along the avenue's sidewalk.

"You gotta catch a bus back tonight, doncha?" Spot asked in a decidedly sad tone. It seemed as if they'd only met up for five minutes, but it was already an hour.

"No bus. I rode to Brooklyn with Jack Kelly, just so I could work this route by your house. He was with me for the first few blocks, then we separated." Race replied. "He's pickin' me up in front of Savinski's Grocery at nine o' clock. Can ya walk with me there?"

"I'm riskin' trouble, Higgins. Not with those big guys. I mean the old man. Adams."

"Oh, yeah. Shit."

"He sees I snuck out without his permission, and I'm outta there. And that doesn't just hurt me. It hurts Bridge too. She likes livin' with Mrs. Adams, she likes the neighborhood and all. Probably 'cause the library and movie theater's close. Last foster home we had three years ago- it sucked, man! We were stuck with four little kids! That lady made Bridge her free babysitting service."

"Yeah." Race sighed. "Spot, you better go home. I'll walk with ya."

When they reached the Adams' house, Race could see Spot take an expectant breath as he turned the knob of the rear porch door. When it opened, Spot let out a sigh of relief.

"Sure hope Adams didn't notice me gone," said Spot. He grinned back at Race. "Enjoy the book."

"Thanks."

"Get back to my neighborhood soon, Higgins."

Race nodded as his friend shut the door quietly. He shouldered his bag, to trek four city blocks to Savinski's Grocery.

...

When Race went into the small convenience store, it was still about twenty minutes until Jack was due to show up with his car. He had no money in his pockets except for a quarter, a dime and two pennies, which would buy maybe a pack of gum or some cheap off-brand soda. He hung near the door, waiting for Jack, bored.

Two guys came to the door and tugged it open, barging inside. Race moved out of the way to let them through. The tall guys were similar-looking to each other, handsome in an intimidating way, and older than Race, maybe about nineteen to twenty-one. They both had dark brown hair worn in mullets. 'Business in the front, party in the back.' Their forelocks were spiked up with hair gel, and longish unruly curls trailed the backs of their necks. They wore olive-green bomber jackets, faded jeans and metal-studded leather bracelets. On the back of their bomber jackets was stenciled 'Green Angels.'

They casually opened the door to the liquor display, and one of them took out a case of beer. When the old man at the register saw them approach, he announced, "I'll need to see your ID for that."

"Happy Birthday, Morris," chortled the one standing to the rear. The one named Morris took out his driver's license and proudly slapped it down. "Twenty-one today!"

"Thank you, son. That'll do." The proprietor rang up the beer purchase.

Race stopped his people-watching, though the two older boys made him a little nervous. Spot talked often about the 'Green Angels.' Race turned his attention out the door and kept an eye out for Davey's car. It was ten to nine.

A fist grasped the back of his collar and Race felt himself being tugged backwards. "Hey! Paper Boy!"

"Yeah?" Race croaked casually, though his hairs felt like they were standing up on his scalp. The fist turned him around so that he faced the two guys. Up close they looked almost like identical twins, except the one grasping his collar, his other arm holding his beer case, had a broader face and a healing scab on his nose.

"Whatcha doin' with Spot Conlon?" demanded the other who was a bit smaller and thinner. He wore an earring of a silver dagger.

"Wha- him?"

"Yeah, him. What's your business with him?" growled his brother with the beer case.

"We saw you walkin' together down the alley. What's in the bag?"

"Oscar, dump out his bag!"

The guy with the earring pulled Race's bag off his shoulder and dumped it to the floor. Four glossy magazines and a library book about horse races spilled out.

"Hey! You bullies leave that kid alone!" shouted the aged shopkeeper.

"Shuddup old man, or I'll throw this case of beer right at your fat head!" Morris yelled. Oscar rummaged in the bag, then studied the floor by Race's feet looking for something amongst the spilled magazines and book.

Race seriously wished that Cowboy Kelly would hurry his ass up and get him back home.

While Oscar was bending over the floor, and Morris was threatening old Mr. Savinski, Race noticed he was standing next to a shelf stocked with cans of soup and jars of pickles.

Before he knew what he was doing, he shot out a hand and grabbed a Vlasic Pickle jar. He blindly flung it at Morris' back. It bounced off his green jacket and shattered to the floor, spreading pickles and spraying juice onto Oscar's face. Race quickly grabbed a Campbell's Chunky soup can and dropped it down on his head.

"Oww!" Oscar hollered.

"Gimme my stuff back!" Race screamed.

"Hey! You better pay for those pickles!" shouted Mr. Savinski.

"Sorry sir!"

Morris was approaching Race like an angry bull. His Coors beer case was apt to be used as an unpleasant weapon, the way he was shouldering it. Adrenaline pumping, Race's fingers shot to the shelf and landed on a can of Chicken of the Sea tuna. Perfect. It was shaped like a little Frisbee.

He threw the tuna can as if it were a Hail Mary football pass. It clunked Morris on the side of his temple, and he stumbled. Heart pounding, Race snatched up the library book and bag, no time to pick up the remaining magazines. Savinski can have them.

As he ran out the door, he saw Jack's car slowing to park at the street corner. Racetrack Higgins had never run so fast in his life as he made a beeline to the old Chevelle while the brothers spilled out the store's glass door, raging and shouting.

"Jack! Jack-Jack-Jack, let's GO, let's GO!"

"Race! What is going on? Jeez!" Jack yelled as Race spilled himself into the passenger seat clutching a New York Times bag and a book.

"Giddy-up, Cowboy! Floor it!" Race screeched in a voice too embarrassingly high-pitched.

Jack put the car into drive as one of the two dudes tried to jump on his front bumper.

"Ohh, no you're not," Jack scoffed. He squealed his tires, accelerating and speeding into the lane. A driver blasted his horn.

Race looked backwards as the two brothers stopped running and glared at him, winded and sore and foiled- for now.

"What's the best tuna? Chicken of the Sea!" Race giddily sang out a familiar TV commercial jingle. "You saved my frickin' life, Jack! Thank you!"

"You're welcome!" Jack grinned. "The Lone Ranger saves the day. You owe me one."

"I owe you one what?"

"We'll figure it out."

Race's heart didn't quiet down completely until Jack's car was halfway across the scenic Brooklyn Bridge, heading home.

...


End file.
